Lights
by Little Miss Illusional
Summary: Archie wasn't sure why the orange haired girl had made such an impression on him. It was a mystery that he'd spend the rest of his life solving. And he'd never say goodbye. A continuation of 'Streets'.


A/N: This is the result of some hard core procrastinating. You have been warned. This is also a follow up to Streets, this time from the perspective of Archie. You don't need to have read Streets to read this, but you should because I'm quite fond of the way that both of these have turned out (EDIT: you probably should read Streets before reading this). Apologies for the angst and character death.

* * *

Lights

New Olympia radiated with the sort of lights that Archie had always dreamt of. The soft glow of the city burned his skin as he walked its streets of a night. It was his habit; the nightly strolls. As a kid he'd be told off by his parents for sneaking out, but as a teenager and adult he'd wander aimlessly all night with no one to come home to.

He'd stopped during the war, on Jay's insistence. He didn't mind, though. He wanted none of those days to end, and it was always with disappointment that he watched the darkness stride forward. It wasn't the war he missed; he loathed that part. The parting of the ways, the goodbyes… they were hard. It still was, even remembering it.

The goodbyes were brief, and then he'd stepped on a plane with _her_, off to explore the world that they'd saved and changed countless times. He thought it would be meaningful; he thought the teenage romance will satiate and change him into a man. But going away didn't change anything but the time of day.

It had taken two years to change the world and five words to destroy it.

_"This isn't working anymore, Archie!"_

The painful echo ran in his ears. He shrugged it off, pulling his jacket closer around him. The night chill clung to him through the streets. Checking his watch, he decided it was time for a drink. Zeus, he needed it.

His usual haunt wasn't a flashy joint; the club was cheap and lit with tacky, neon lights that flashed irregularly onto the busy street. Archie nodded at the bouncer; they'd never spoken, but the older bloke knew the regulars.

"You alright, mate?"

Archie shrugged. "Is anyone?"

The bouncer sighed and let him in. He was used to Archie's moods. Most of the patrons were. He took a quick scan of the occupants; old habits never died. Muttering his order to the bartender, he grabbed his drink and wandered into his usual seat.

He sat in the deepest corner of the club, melting into the walls with a shot of whiskey in hand. The bruise pattern on his hands never seemed to fade these days, not with fights almost every week. He needed the money, now that he was alone.

"Don't think about her," he muttered to himself. "Don't do it, Archie."

His mind turned to other memories instead. Archie thought of the orange haired girl, and wondered where she was now. Where all of them were; that old gang, the descendants. Jay, Herry, Odie, Neil, Theresa and … _her_. But he mustn't think about _her_. He'd only been back for a few weeks, he could last this out, he didn't need to think about _her,_ the touch of _her_ hands, the smell of _her_ skin…

He shook his head, scowling, and downed the remainder of his drink. The alcohol burned in his throat.

A low muttering filled the club as the door swung open. He followed the gaze of the patrons to the back of a young woman now sitting at the bar. Her dress, from what he could tell, was rather short and hugged her figure. Long waves of orange hair trickled down her back.

His heart fluttered.

Surely, surely this was a cruel trick of Fate. Just when he'd begun to move on with his life; just when he was settling into the world, a memory had to come haunting back. And not just any memory. No, it had to be her;Theresa. _Her _best friend. And the orange haired girl; the standover girl who'd woken him up the first time he'd blacked out in a fight.

He contemplated walking out of the club right then. He really did. He counted the number of steps to the door, and the factors that would make him as silent as possible in his escape.

He didn't leave, though. He wasn't sure why.

But he did manage to stand up and begin walking toward the bar. Words were tossed aside as he wondered what to say. When he finally reached her, and slid into the seat beside her small form, he was tongue tied. All the elaborate things he'd supposed he would say slunk away. He managed a name, though.

"Theresa?"

She looked up, her green eyes wide with shock. "Archie!" She flung her arms around him, babbling incoherently. _Women._

"What are you doing here? I though you and Atlanta… bad topic?" She saw his wince. He nodded, deflecting the pain of _her _name.

"Came back here for a bit, just to see how things were." He smirked at her. "Whatcha drinking, anyway?"

They ordered a round of drinks as they chatted. Theresa told him about her job; he told her about his lack of employment. She laughed at that; not cruelly. She had a nice laugh, though. He wondered why he'd never noticed before. _Probably the alcohol_, he thought and sighed. Beautiful women were the bane of his existence.

"You're still fighting, I take it?" She touched the bruised skin of his knuckles.

He shrugged. "Why not? It's just-"

"Don't!" She intercut. "Don't make an excuse for it. I understand." He could see her thoughts in her eyes; the understanding. Of course she knew; she was a fighter too. Theresa hadn't dropped her hand from his, and they both looked now as she slowly, very slowly, stroked the tender broken skin.

Restricted as he was from speaking, he wanted her to kiss him. He wanted to drag her hand across and pull her over. It didn't matter where. His mouth, his neck, his cheek. His skin was empty for it, waiting.

"Can I get you two any more drinks?"

They both jumped as the bartender spoke. They ordered another round, and Theresa's hand dropped. He watched that hand all night as they absentmindedly chatted, getting progressively more and more drunk as the night wore on. Around twelve thirty his somewhat intoxicated mind suggested that it was time to stop drinking. He also wanted to kiss Theresa, quite badly.

He didn't know how to ask. He preferred not to ruin things with any more questions. What it was was what it was. But he had one more question, ironically, and it burned like whiskey in his mouth.

"Your place or mine?" he murmured in her ear.

Theresa's eyes widened. She stared at him; the orange haired girl stared at him like she'd never seen him until now. Those impossibly green eyes were looking at him, at Archie. If before he saw her thought processes, now he saw her mind go blank, save one small, little spark.

"Mine." She breathed.

They drained their drinks and headed out onto the busy street. He called a taxi; she rested her head on his shoulder, stumbling into the car and giggling. Maybe some things never changed. But she laced their fingers together some time during the trip to her apartment. Archie stared down at their intermingled hands, wondering where one started and the other began.

He had an overwhelming desire to kiss her, but it may just have been the alcohol clouding his senses. That's what he told himself, when their lips met outside her door. _It's the alcohol, we're drunk, you're only kissing her because you're drunk_. He was scolding himself as he was kissing Theresa senselessly, outside her apartment, with one destination in mind.

_It's the alcohol._ She unlocked the door as he nibbled at her neck, drawing a gasp.

_We're drunk._ They tumbled through the kitchen, into her bedroom. She laughed as he fumbled with her dress' zipper.

_You're only kissing her because you're drunk._ Her fingers knotted in his hair. Her green eyes held him, frozen next to her on the bed. She was beautiful from this angle. Her skin was flushed and her lips were swollen, and Archie couldn't look away.

He was starting to come to the conclusion that maybe, just maybe, he wasn't all that drunk after all.

"Something the matter?" Theresa eyed him curiously, biting her bottom lip. "Is this moving too fast?"

Archie chuckled, brushing her cheek. "You're hardly the first girl I've been with, Theresa."

She looked at the pillows, and he could see she was imagining what they looked like every other night. One less body in the bed. The guilt of this held her down momentarily. It appeared to be there constantly. Never far away, despite her insistence that she didn't need anybody.

"I haven't… you know. Not since Jay." She mumbled and sighed. "It's just… it's not the same."

He pressed his lips to her forehead. He didn't speak. What more could he say?

Theresa looks up at him, a question on her lips. "Why me, Arch?" She was suddenly very awake; her emerald eyes glaring at him.

Archie stared back, his fingers absentmindedly tracing the shape of her shoulders. "Do you remember when we first met, Theresa? You and me, in that little alley off that busy street." He knew he was brushing off her question, but he wanted Theresa to see what he saw. He wanted her to see the fear and wonder in the little orange girl's eyes. Maybe then she would understand. He hoped she would. He didn't understand it himself.

"That was a million years ago." She smiled. Memories pooled in her irises, of times past and people gone. He wondered if she still remembered that day as clearly as he did.

"Nine years." He smiled back as he tucked a stray lock of her hair behind her ear. "Just nine."

She stared up at him. "A lot's changed since then. The war changed us." Her eyes dropped. "I'm not that little girl anymore."

He followed her gaze, over the curve of her chest. Things had changed, indeed. "I used to be a dick to you, didn't I?"

She shrugged. "You weren't always. Sometimes you could be quite tolerable. Atlanta seemed to think so." Theresa peered at him. He wondered if she noticed when he winced at their friend's name. _Atlanta_. He didn't want to think about her now, not when he was in bed, naked, with Theresa. Silently, he begged to whatever gods were listening that Theresa wouldn't press the matter further.

"What happened between you two, anyway?"

Of course the gods weren't listening. Archie shrugged. Maybe he needed to confront this. He told Theresa about his failure of a romance; how he'd let Atlanta go. Breaking up with her would have been easier. Less drawn out. They just… drifted. Atlanta had drifted into a new life, and he'd drifted back to New Olympia.

In return, Theresa told him about her relationship with Jay. They too had drifted, it seemed. She was so animated when she spoke of the Greek man, Archie couldn't help but feel the emotion welling inside his stomach. _Bitterness_. He felt bitter. He thought of that meeting, long ago, back in the garden of the dorm and wondered how things may have been different, had he not walked away.

Could the future have changed, had he stayed?

"Arch?"

He'd spaced out. He smiled at the girl, shifting uncomfortably. She gestured for him to speak. He must have looked like he had something vitally important to say. And he did. The words were almost pouring from his mouth like a flood.

"I hated the war." He admitted. "I hated being a part of that. I didn't have a clue and I still don't. And I can't get those years back." Theresa looked like she wanted to interject, but he continued. "And it's just… I wish it was easier, for me, you know?" He made a special point not to look at her. "I wish it was someone else who was chosen for that. Someone competent." It came gushing out, with words like spilled milk. "And I wish it was me that was with you, not Jay. I wish I hadn't been a prick, pushing you away… I wish I had the courage to love you."

And there it was.

Stupidity in its purest form.

"Oh, Archie." Theresa looked away. "Oh, Arch."

Their feet tangled.

He watched them, and he watched the bare skin of Theresa's arms.

They only laid there.

Theresa and Archie.

And discomfort.

Squeezed in, between them.

But Theresa kissed him anyway, wrapping her hands around his head and tangling her fingers in his hair. He kissed her back hungrily, trying to steal his words back. _Love_. He'd said that word. He'd never said that word; not ever said it and meant it with all of his heart. Because, make no mistake, the Archie had a heart. He had a bigger heart than people thought. There wasn't much in it, but what was in it was infinite. The memories and people and places were magnified in the warrior's hidden heart, unrelenting and beating in the dark.

The next morning, he retrieved his pants and shirt from her floor, and dressed quickly. He'd have left immediately, had she not woken.

"Arch?"

He looked back, already half way out the door. Her orange hair was tousled, her eyes were smeared in mascara and she was beautiful. She watched him with a faint fear in her green eyes, silently begging him to stay.

"I'll go and make breakfast." He muttered. A compromise. He'd stay for breakfast. And then he was leaving.

His mind raced as he buttered toast and poured coffee. Vaguely, he was aware of her, sitting at the table in nothing but an oversized T-shirt. He couldn't look at her, not without the memories of the night creeping up on him.

Already, he knew that all of this would stay with him forever. It would haunt him, but he also feared it would make him feel grateful. Fear he really didn't want this to be a fond memory until was over. He also feared that nothing really ended at the end. Things just kept going as long as memory could wield its axe, always finding a soft part in his mind to cut through and enter.

He set her mug down next to her and a plate of toast on the table. He grabbed a piece and slunk over to the sideboard, looking for something to distract him from her constant stare. He found it in a small, framed photograph, pushed towards the back of the sideboard. Seven teenagers smiled back at him; wide grins and carelessness nearly pouring through the frame.

"Do you miss it?"

Theresa had managed to sneak up behind him. He shrugged as she reached under his arm and touched the photo, smiling. She even touched Jay's face on the photos, and Archie saw what it was to love someone like Theresa loved that man. Her fingertips were made of love, and he could feel it on his skin.

He couldn't shake off the feeling of her love.

Making a feeble excuse, he started to the door. He felt her gaze on the back of his neck, but didn't stop until he'd reached the doorway. He would allow himself one more glance, just one. Very, very slowly, Archie turned around, and met Theresa's eye.

He watched the orange haired girl – woman, he corrected himself. He watched the orange haired woman for as long as he could, then turned and faced the rest of it. In this instance, it was a door, and he walked out of it, leaving a piece of himself behind. And he wouldn't be going back to collect it.

When he burst out onto the street, his breath was ragged and his feet were sore. He didn't realise he had been running. Questions followed him. Did he spend most of his days trying to remember or to forget? Did he spend most of his time running towards or away from his life? Wildly, he looked around, wondering where all the answers were.

There were people everywhere on the city street, but Archie could not have been more alone if it were empty.

* * *

Questions ate at Archie as the months and years trickled by. He never went back to see Theresa. He couldn't bring himself to see her again. He didn't have the time, either. The fights got more and more intense. He'd made enemies over the years. The street fighting crowd weren't an easily forgiving lot. His skills, taught by the gods themselves, both won fights and lost them. People didn't like a man who could kick the shit out of anyone. So he'd be targeted, ten to one, every fight.

Not that he cared. He could walk off a split lip and broken bones. He just knew that all he wanted was to be proud. For once. He wanted to take the struggle and rise above it. He wanted to frame it, live it, survive it. He wanted to put it in his mouth and taste it and never forget it, because it made him strong.

If the fighting killed him tonight, or tomorrow, or the next week, it didn't really matter. He would die alive, with his fists bruised.

His sparring partner of a Thursday was a burly man with broad shoulders and much more between his ears than he let on. His hooks were vicious, and Archie somehow managed to cop at least one to the face every week. He wasn't sure why. Maybe it was simply the fact that the man was better than him. Or maybe it was the colour of his deeply green eyes that seemed to glitter right before he struck.

Yes, he was often reminded of her. He had kept her story on a shelf inside his heart. He wasn't sure why. Maybe to prove to him that Theresa, and his fights, was worth it.

Dazed and winded, he laid on the gym floor. His heart applauded inside his ears, first like a roaring crowd, then slowed and slowed until was a solitary person, clapping with unbridled sarcasm.

"Well done, Archie," his sparring partner jeered. "You got beaten again. Now get up."

Archie stood, slowly, and accepted the outstretched arm of the man. He was led to the chairs thrust against the wall, and slumped into one. The man eyed him disdainfully. Archie scowled.

"I'm alright." He muttered, rubbing his cheek. "I'm fine."

The man shook his head. "You're a bloody nutcase with a death wish." He walked off, and came back after a few minutes with an icepack in hand. He dropped it in Archie's lap, laughing as the warrior winced.

"You gonna be able to fight tomorrow?" Archie heard the concern in the man's voice. "I can call Fitz and tell him you can't if-"

Archie shook his head, ignoring the sick feeling that came with that movement. "No. I'm fighting. Don't you dare pull me out."

The man raised an eyebrow. "You better get your act together, then. No more distractions, whatever it is." He slunk off, leaving Archie alone in the poorly lit gym.

Sweat was slicked into his hair like gel and his muscles were on fire, but Archie felt alive. It was the bittersweetness of uncertainty. To win or to lose? Every fight brought the same nervous feeling back. It was all he knew that was real. Too bad he'd been on a losing streak. A gradual decline in the past years. Maybe he was getting old, or maybe it was just the distractions like everyone else thought.

He stood now, grimacing, and limped out the door. He wasn't sure where he was going. He didn't really care, either. Wandering the streets was a second nature to him, like breathing. Archie breathed the streets in and spat starlight and sneers back out.

Deep down, he knew where he was going. He knew it as he climbed a flight of apartment stairs, and he damn well knew it when he arrived on her floor. He knew her door. He'd kissed her outside this door. That had been the first time he kissed her.

The apartment hall was poorly lit, but the door seemed to glow. Archie stood in front of it for what seemed like hours. It was probably only a few seconds. Time didn't seem to follow a strict progression anymore.

With a sigh, he raised his hand and knocked on the door. He winced; his knuckles were still sore and bruised from the week's fights. He waited.

And waited.

He swore under his breath and knocked again. He waited and… nothing. Not a peep. Swearing again, he looked around. A neighbouring door stood only a few metres to the left. He strode over and knocked on the door, wincing again with the contact between his knuckles and hard wood. He only had to wait a few seconds before an elderly Asian woman opened the door, staring out at him with bored eyes.

"I'm looking for Theresa," he said hopefully. "Is this that still her apartment?" He pointed to the opposite door.

The lady stared at him, confusion filtering into her face. "Who?"

"Theresa," he said slowly, and pointed to his head. "Orange hair?"

Recognition entered the woman's eyes. "Oh. She no live here. She move, long time ago." She smiled, and then closed her door.

Sighing, he looked back at Theresa's door. He felt alone, more alone than he had in a very long time. Who could answer his questions now? Surely Theresa was the only one that could tell him why he could not forget her, no matter how hard he tried.

He knew, in his heart, that the answers were already in his head. Somewhere in that apartment, he must have seen her broken heart, in two pieces. Archie wondered if she'd seen his own shattered heart, too. They must surely have been dying the same demise. People died of broken hearts. They had heart attacks. And was the heart that hurt most when things went wrong and fell apart.

Archie was sick of being a tangle of memories. He had to decide what he was going to do, and what he was going to be.

There was a sense of purpose in his stride as he walked towards the warehouse. Determination drove him on as the night fell upon New Olympia. Streetlights flickered on like stars. Archie barely noticed them. Adrenaline blinded his eyes, until he'd reached the abandoned building. Already a crowd had gathered, and he was the last to show up. They were waiting for him, it seemed.

And they watched him, the underdog, approach. Sneers filled their blank faces. Archie didn't give anything in return. He just stood, a little off to the side of the forming circle.

He was standing there, waiting for someone to do something, until he realised the person he was waiting for was himself. He nodded a greeting to the other fighters and stepped into their circle. Nobody nodded back, they never did. They weren't friends in this business. They were either losers, or winners.

He had been a winner, once. That was when the world wasn't so big and he could see everywhere. It was when Archie was hero and not a human. But those times had gone. Now he was just another man on the streets. But they were all waiting for their time to come. His had already come and gone.

There was nothing left to give but his already spent life.

He raced into the fight, wild eyed and in a frenzy. Ducking under one flying fist, he delivered his own into one fighter's stomach, grinning at the sound of air expelling from the man's lungs. Then he collected a painful blow to the back of his knees, sending him sprawling face down on the ground.

His hands went to guard his head as countless pairs of feet kicked him. They were angry feet, and he cried out in pain. He closed his eyes, or had he blacked out? It was agony, this self-inflected pain.

_Get up, Archie._

He heard her voice. It echoed in his ears, and he knew that she wasn't real. He clenched his jaw and stood, opening his eyes and gasping as the light struck him. It was night, but the stars burned. And his head hurt. It was probably a concussion, but he could have sworn the stars were wheeling and dancing.

She stood off to the side, away from the fight, dressed exactly how she'd been all those years ago. She didn't smile, or wave. But her eyes were shining, and feeling seemed to pour out of her.

_Why are you fighting, Arch?_ She seemed to be asking. _Can you win?_

A fist slammed into his face. He felt his nose break and bleed.

He was punched in the gut. A rib snapped, like raw pasta.

Archie wasn't watching the fight anymore. He was watching the orange haired girl. The next time she spoke, the question stumbled from her mouth. He couldn't hear the words. Hot tears fought for room in her eyes as she would not let them out. Better to stand resolute and proud. Let the words do all of it.

Archie remained on his feet, barely.

He did not drop to his knees.

Perhaps people may have clapped, had he not been the underdog. But they might stopped, and watched.

As he raised his fists, Archie looked at the girl. The orange haired girl. He knew she wasn't there; she was just a memory thrown up by his heart, blue jeans and all. She was fifteen, naïve and strong. She was just a ghost of his memory. And she was watching him die.

He didn't say goodbye. He couldn't. The words stuck in his jaw.

Archie was aware of the fist travelling towards his face. He saw it, and a sort of calm descended. He collected the punch, and the floor collected him. He was aware of the concrete slab that connected with the back of his head, in a sickening crunch.

In the time between his eyes closing, Archie wondered if this, his life, had been won or lost.

The answer died on his lips.

The group of fighters scampered, disappearing into the night-lit streets. There wasn't anything else they could do; not for a body. Archie, the reckless purple-haired warrior, was gone, and he wasn't coming back for the next fight.

So much life, so much to live for. So much darkness. So much light.

He would have loved to see the frenzied police and the downpour of the sky on the night he passed away. He'd have cried and turned and smiled if only he could have seen the orange haired woman on her hands and knees, next to his empty body. He'd have been glad to witness her kissing his blooded, broken lips.

He'd have loved it all right. He would have kissed her back and taken the time to see the light in her eyes fill with the love that she seemed to have an everlasting quantity of.

He would have loved it, all right.

Instead, he spent the next forty years by the Elysium Gate, pacing past the iron bars with such intensity, even Hades kept his distance. The residents of the fields left him to his own accords; the eternal life of the underworld made them a more relaxed bunch. There just wasn't a need for urgency, not when every minute was a lifetime and a day could pass in the blink of an eye.

His friends trickled in, one by one. They laughed and hugged and cried in their reunions. Depicted in death just how he remembered them, Archie had smiled for the first time since dying. He felt alive, too, but had laughed that off. It was too ironic now.

Theresa had been the last to join them. Underneath her youthful appearance, he could see the yellowed skin and the wrinkles around her green eyes. The grey, wispy hair that only hinted at the orange that he loved, and yet he found her just as beautiful. It was the eyes, he decided, the eyes and the hair. They carved something on his heart, and filled the cavities with her smile.

He took her hand and led her through Elysium, laughing and chatting. She told him of her life; how she'd been there after he died. He winced at that, but was glad that he saw no pain in her eyes from the memory. She spoke of his death with great wisdom; an old woman recounting a fairy tale. Were they all just stories in the end?

It didn't really matter now. The pages had been turned. The book was closed, and their story was over.

The light began to set as they watched; the yellows of the afternoon faded into blues. Twilight was descending on Elysium, slowly, but surely very soon. Indigo and navy blue hues caressed the fields, sinking into their skin.

He wanted to tell the orange haired girl many things, as they sat in the fields. He wanted to tell her that he fought the world, and won. That he went back to her apartment. That he had never quite shaken off the feeling of her love. He didn't speak, though. How well could they really let themselves know each other? Well enough, apparently. He knew the curve of her lips better than his own, and the exact shade of her eyes was imprinted into his mind. It always had been, ever since he first woke up and saw her standing over him.

"We should get back," he muttered. "The others will be wondering where we are, and we're losing the light."

He went to stand, but Theresa's coy smile stopped him. Her hand reached out to his wrist and pulled him back down, lacing their fingers together in a tangle that Archie wanted to spend the rest of time solving.

"There's no rush," the orange haired girl murmured, kissing his lips softly. "We've got time."

* * *

A/N: Yep. I honestly don't understand why I wrote this. It was pure, utter torture to write Archie's death again. But I guess writing is a form of torture. The happy kind, because I love writing, and I hope that my words are enough to make you all understand that.

While not everyone here wants to make writing a serious profession, I do. I want to be an author. I love words, and even if this story is never read or never published ever, I will never regret writing it.

Right now, I'm (still) drafting a new multi-chapter story, which is pretty darn exciting considering I haven't done one of those in years. It's in the final stage of editing, so it'll be up soon, I promise! I'm also working on Sleepless Demeanours, and I'm going to have to start winding down on that soon. I think I'll get to Chapter 100 and stop (I've already written the last drabble!). But don't fret, because there's still thirty or so drabbles between now and then.

So, anyway, thank you for reading my words. Bonus points if you recognise the _Doctor Who_ references!

Illusional


End file.
